Because Sam Needs Dean
by ElegantGhost
Summary: A series of one-shots in which Sam needs his big brother. When he's scared, hurt/injured, sick, drunk/drugged, mentally unstable, or otherwise in danger... Dean will be the caring, protective brother who provides comfort. CHAPTER THREE: Sam is drugged, half-naked, and disoriented as he stumbles through back alleys.
1. Thunder and Lightning

_Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. All one-shots take place in any season. Choose your time frame._

* * *

Sam bolted upright in bed, his heart pounding with adrenaline. The motel room was dark. Shadows were cast on the far wall whenever a car passed, stretching over the ugly wood paneling. The silhouette of his brother in the next bed, chest slowly rising and falling, was enough to slow his heart rate. But it still didn't explain-

A flash from outside lit up the room for a split second.

Lightning.

It was followed by a _BOOM_ that shook the roof and sent Sam scrambling for the lamp switch.

_Damn it_.

His upper half already free of the covers, he missed the lamp and fell out of bed, cracking his head against the nightstand. Pain flared over his eyebrow. In the next instant, he was on the floor, staring up at the ceiling fan. One of his ankles still rested against the mattress. The world spun in a dizzying swirl of shadow.

Another deafening rumble was enough to make him dive for Dean's bed with the balance of a drunkard. He was a clumsy mess of palms and knees as he crawled over the form under the covers. There was a pained grunt from Dean before Sam finally settled against the headboard. Knees drawn to his chest, he reached out and shook Dean's shoulder. He was none too gentle about it.

"Dean, wake up! Dean! There's a storm outside, dude…"

Dean hardly stirred, burrowing his head even deeper into the pillow. Sam's eyebrows drew together in confusion before he remembered the late night Dean had at the local bar. No wonder he was sleeping like the dead.

Palms beginning to sweat, Sam blinked hard and tried to control his breathing. He was an adult. He hunted supernatural beings every day. He could handle a little thunder and lightning.

Another flash outside the window was warning enough. Screw dignity. They had to leave the room before the roof collapsed.

Sam ripped the covers from Dean's grasp and threw them to the foot of the bed. It was a dirty move, but he needed his brother to wake up _now_. Grumbling proceeded a hand blindly reaching for the missing covers. Only when Dean couldn't find them did he finally begin to wake up.

"JESUS!" Dean flung himself backward at the unexpected sight of Sam sitting right beside him. He fell out of bed and hit the ground, limbs flailing.

"Dean!" Sam whispered furiously. "There's a storm-"

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean fumbled for the lamp switch, flooding the room with blinding light. His hair stuck out in all directions as he stood in only a white t-shirt and boxers. "What's wrong with you? Why-"

Another rumble of thunder cut him off. Sam's eyes darted to the ceiling as his feet drew underneath him in a crouch.

"Whoa, there, tiger," Dean tried to soothe him. His hands were out as if trying to calm a wild animal. "Sammy… it's okay. It's just a little weather, dude." Then, "What happened to your head?"

Sam reached up and felt the growing lump over his eye, surprised when his hand came away bloody. "It's just a cut. Listen, Dean, we need to pack it up and get the hell out of here."

Dean's brow wrinkled. "Sammy, come on, man."

He turned and walked to the bags, presumably to grab the first aid kit. Sam leapt from the bed to follow him, uncomfortable with the growing space between them. As soon as his feet touched the floor, however, dizziness assaulted him. He staggered once and nearly fell over.

Dean's head whipped around. He darted forward, hands under Sam's shoulders to keep him from collapsing.

"Alright, just take it easy." Dean's tone was all business now. He sat Sam on the edge of the bed. "How hard did you hit your head, dude?"

Sam groaned in the back of his throat. "The thunder-"

"Don't worry about that now. You seein' stars?"

_BOOM_.

Sam suddenly locked his arms around Dean's waist, ear pressed against his rib cage. He knew his arms were trembling, but he didn't care. At the moment, he only needed Dean as close as possible. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tightened his grip.

_Damn thunder_.

Dean allowed the awkward embrace for a moment, finally clearing his throat. His fingertips brushed Sam's upper arms. "Okay, okay. Sammy?"

He gently gripped Sam's arms and pulled them away. "Need to breathe sometime, dude." Then he knelt down so that Sam was staring directly into his eyes. "We're safe, you hear me? Nothing bad is gonna happen."

Sam nodded slowly as the words sunk in. He felt dazed as Dean patted his shoulder once and rose to grab the first aid kit.

When he returned with gauze and medical tape, Sam shook his head. "It's superficial."

"Just let me take care of you, alright?" Dean's expression was irritated, but it softened when there was another crash of thunder. "Never did much care for storms, did you, Sammy?"

He ripped open the gauze packet and reached up to apply pressure to the cut. Sam couldn't stop himself from flinching away. His eyes felt as big as saucers, but it probably didn't do his fear justice. Dean may have been right in front of him, but just outside that motel door was a storm that could bring the motel down around them, and-

"It's okay. Look at me, Sam. _It's okay_."

Those two simple words were enough to keep Sam's thoughts from running away with his imagination. He met Dean's eyes and nodded. The gauze was pressed against his forehead, making him suck in air through clenched teeth. Christ, how had he not noticed the cut before? It _burned_.

"I'm sorry," Sam muttered, staring at the carpet. There was a cigarette burn not far from the bed. "Sorry for waking you. For being afraid."

A hand gripped his shoulder, making Sam look up into his brother's eyes. "Listen to me, Sam. We face a lot of bad mojo, right? Things so evil that we have no choice but to kill them. We face it, do our job, and then go home. And you know how we get through it? Together."

Sam cracked a smile. "That came awfully close to being a chick flick moment."

"Shut up. You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid of thunder, Dean."

Dean pursed his lips, nodding and raising his eyebrows. "And nightmares. And clowns. Gotta hand it to you, Sammy. As far as childhood fears go, you sure pick some doozies."

A clap of thunder cut off Sam's retort, and suddenly he forgot what they were talking about. He scrambled backwards until he was once against the headboard of Dean's bed, burying his face in his knees. The roof vibrated overhead, but he clamped his hands over his ears, determined to drown it out.

They were fine. Everything was fine. With the exception of the fact that the motel was built in the late fifties and probably hadn't had any renovations since-

"_Sammy."_

The bed dipped beside him.

"Try to calm down, dude. Just take some deep breaths."

Then there was a hand on Sam's back, gently rubbing back and forth. He felt his eyes burn with shame, but he clenched them shut, refusing to let his fear get the best of him. A hand brushed the hair back from his forehead.

Sam uncurled just enough to reach out and wrap his arms around his brother. Dean might kill him for it tomorrow, but morning seemed so far off that he didn't care. If he could only make it through the next few minutes without experiencing a full-blown panic attack, he'd take any crap Dean could dish out.

Panic attacks sucked.

His head rested against Dean's ribs. The steady _thump, thump_… _thump, thump… _was enough to make his eyelids droop. It steadied his breathing until he was sure their hearts beat in sync. As comforting as one of those sleep sound machines he used to have in his room as a baby. Dean told him the heartbeat setting always did lull him to sleep right away. He couldn't even hear the thunder anymore.

"Shhh. Relax. Everything's fine, man," Dean whispered. "Shhhh."

A hand gently stroked his hair. The repetitive motion, coupled with Dean's body heat and the steady beat of his heart triggered a yawn from Sam. He burrowed into his brother's shirt, distantly realizing that if he weren't half-asleep, he might have been mortified.

"Dude," he heard. "You can _not _sleep here." But the words were soft enough that Sam knew they held no real objection behind them. He felt Dean fidget, as if weighing his options. There was the Winchester pride to uphold, after all. Sleep had nearly claimed him when there was a resigned sigh.

"If you drool on me, you are so dead," Dean whispered. He slowly shifted Sam until he was laying flat, his head on a pillow. Then bed covers fell over him. They were tucked around him in a way Dean hadn't done since he was eight years old.

Hands gently probed the cut over Sam's eye, making him grunt and pull away. _Enough already,_ he wanted to mutter.

There was a soft chuckle before a hand patted his shoulder once. "Alright, Sasquatch. Go to sleep."

The bedsprings creaked as Dean made himself comfortable less than a foot away. Then the glow beyond Sam's eyelids faded to darkness and he fell into a peaceful sleep.


	2. Backache

_Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural._

* * *

Sam shifted in the Impala, trying to find a more comfortable position. The movement triggered a sharp pain in the center of his back. It was near his spine, throbbing to the music blaring through the speakers.

Dean was blissfully ignorant of his little brother's predicament. He drummed his hands on the wheel, singing to Led Zepplin with a crooked half-smile on his face. It was a welcome change over the moodiness he usually displayed, but Sam winced as a half-hearted punch found his shoulder.

"Whole, whole lotta love," Dean sang, head bobbing along. "Whole, whole lotta love!"

Throbbing.

Pain.

Sam could barely raise his hand to turn down the music. As soon as he had, he said, "Dean, don't get me wrong. It's great to see you like this. And if one-nighters with hot chicks put you in this kinda mood, be my guest. But you think we could kill the marathon drive for the night?"

"Plenty of daylight left, Sammy." He shot his little brother a smile. "And I got-" his hand darted from the wheel to crank the music volume. "A whole, whole lotta love…"

Sam nearly punched the _off_ button in response, and immediately wished he hadn't. The pain radiated down his back until he was grinding his teeth. His head fell against the passenger window. _Hurts_.

"What's up with you? Not enough staring out the window in silence lately?"

By the time Sam managed to unclench his teeth, his voice was weak with exhaustion. "I just need to sleep. In a bed."

"This gonna be like when you were a kid? You get cranky, I put you down for a nap…"

"It's nearly five, Dean. We can call it a day."

"Alright, alright. We should be hitting the next town here, pretty soon. Think you can keep a lid on the brooding until then?"

Sam's only response was a glare.

* * *

By the time they pulled into the motel parking lot, Sam's back had locked up on him. It was so knotted that he couldn't even slouch. Whatever the hell was going on, it was starting to scare him.

Dean was eying him with a bit more concern than before, but he hadn't said anything yet. To his credit, he hopped out of the car and was back in less than two minutes with the room key. Usually it took him longer, especially with a blonde receptionist behind the counter. Sam thanked the angels and whoever else was listening for big brother instincts.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Dean said as he drove them a short distance to the room. "But you look like you have a stick up your ass. Something going on with you?"

Sam opened his mouth to tell his brother what he always told him: _I'm fine. _

But his back had other ideas. It suddenly spasmed, tearing a grunt of pain from him. He sharply twisted in his seat to relieve some of the pressure, but that seemed to make it worse. His vision flared white until he straightened once more. Only then did the pain cease long enough for him to take a breath without screaming.

That's when Sam realized the Impala had stopped, the passenger door was open, and Dean was kneeling beside him looking more than a little freaked.

Breath coming in harsh gasps, Sam managed to nod that he was okay, even if Dean had never asked. Sam could see the question written all over his face.

"You back with me?" Dean gave him a once over. "Come on, let's get you inside."

Sam sharply exhaled as Dean helped him to sit up, hands under his shoulders.

"It's my back," he warned.

"No, really, Sammy? I didn't get the feeling you felt like dancing in your seat. This motel isn't that great."

Sam managed to lower his feet to the pavement, but the slightest pressure warned him against trying anything _cute_. Like walking.

"I don't know if I can make it, Dean."

"You can make it." Dean's tone left no room for argument. "I'll help you. Come on. Just put your weight on me."

He grabbed Sam's arm and gently placed it over his shoulders, watching for any sign of pain. Sam tried to brace himself as they stood, but another flare made him jerk in Dean's hold.

"Take it easy," he distantly heard before his feet were dragged over a threshold. The glow beyond his eyelids faded to darkness, while the smell of a musty motel room sent a wave of nausea through him.

"No," Sam mumbled, clutching at Dean's arm, trying to relieve the pressure on his back.

"Dude, don't fight me. Just try to relax."

Sam felt hands on his chest, pushing him down onto a soft bed. The quilt was already pulled back. Without Dean's support, his head fell back onto the pillow. It was blissfully cool, as were the sheets that pressed against the skin of his waist where his shirt had ridden up. His relief was short-lived when his back spasmed again.

Damn it.

Sam covered his face with his arms, all but writhing on the bed. Dean was speaking to him, tugging at the laces in his boots and then sliding them off his feet.

Cool sheets.

_Pain._ Oh, God. Pain.

"You hearing me? I said you should lay on your stomach."

Hands wrapped around Sam's shoulders, gently guiding him onto his front. Then they clasped his ankles and moved his legs. Eventually Sam found himself with his face half-buried in a motel pillow that smelled like laundry detergent. The buttons on his shirt were digging uncomfortably into his rib cage, but he didn't care. As long as the throbbing in his back ceased, he's take any small annoyance life could dish out.

"Okay, Sammy." A hand carded through his hair. "Just don't move, all right? I'm gonna hit the corner Gas 'n Sip and see if they have any Icy Hot or Ibuprofen. We go through that stuff like nobody's business."

A sound of acknowledgement escaped Sam's throat. Actual words were too much to ask for at this point. His teeth refused to unclench anyhow.

He squeezed his eyes shut, floating in a sea of pain as Dean's footsteps crossed the room. Before Dean left, he turned on the air conditioning. The light breeze was stale at first. It smelled like air ducts and insulation. Then it grew fresher, blowing wisps of hair across Sam's forehead.

It was _almost_ nice.

Cracking his eyes open, Sam realized that Dean was gone. The white noise of the AC must have drowned out the closing door. And if he'd left for the corner Gas 'n Sip… it shouldn't take him more than fifteen minutes of _agony _to grab some supplies, should it? No.

Sam shifted on the mattress, thankful that they'd chosen a hotel with decent beds. No uncomfortable springs, no sunken middles. No Magic Fingers either, but he'd take what he could get.

He groaned as the throbbing in his back increased. _Shit_.

* * *

Sam was just contemplating if a hot bath would be worth the trouble when the door opened and Dean walked in, looking rather pleased with himself.

"You doing okay, Sammy?" he asked softly, wasting no time before closing the door and opening the bag. "You wouldn't believe the selection they had for back pain. I guess they're used to truckers dragging their sorry asses-"

Sam whimpered.

_Well, that was manly._

"One more minute, Sammy. One more minute." Dean hurried into the motel bathroom. There was the sound of paper cups falling to the floor, a curse, and the rattling of a pill bottle.

The next thing Sam knew, Dean was by his side, holding out two pills and a cup of water.

_Thank God._

Sam downed the pills, ignoring the extra pain that propping himself up triggered. He was breathing heavily by the time his head hit the pillow again, but the simple knowledge that relief was on the way…

He heard Dean grab something else from the bag before the bed dipped beside him. He tensed as his shirt was gently pulled up to bare his back.

"Hey, hey," Dean soothed him. "You're good. It's all good. A little of this ought to help."

_A little of what? _Sam wanted to ask. But before he could, he felt Dean lightly rest his hands on his back. They began to move up and down, only just grazing his skin.

_Please don't hurt, please don't hurt…_

Whatever Dean was rubbing on his back was warm before the air conditioning breezed over it, chilling him. Even as he shivered, Sam mumbled his thanks.

"Anytime, Sammy. Now hush."

The hands on his back rubbed with more pressure, although the change was so gradual that Sam only twitched a few times. He could tell whenever Dean found a knot because he rubbed small circles in a concentrated area before moving on. Drowsiness began to pull at him, even as he realized that his back felt like an ice slate and Dean's hands felt like hot coals. Ice. Hot. Icy Hot.

Oh, yeah. He was definitely out of it.

"Always need to keep this kind of crap to yourself, don't you?" Dean whispered. "Can't just come out and _say_ when something's wrong." His thumbs pressed into another knot. "Unless of course it's emotional." Light chuckle. "Just kidding. Sort of."

Sam had it in his mind to tell Dean to go screw himself, but his body was too lax to cooperate. Now that most of the pain had faded, he was practically drooling into the pillow. Sacrificing a little pride to be pain free for the first time in hours wasn't such a high price to pay, anyway.

"Sammy?" Dean's hands paused. "You still awake?"

Sam made a sound of acknowledgement. A poor excuse for one, but it got the job done.

He heard Dean's smile in his next words. "Not for much longer though, hmmm? Come on, let's get you out of these clothes."

Even _that_ wasn't worth snorting at.

Sam wasn't much help as Dean turned him over, unbuttoned his shirt, and shook his limp arms out of their sleeves. A hand reached underneath him to tug the shirt free without sitting him up. He could only yawn as his jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped, and pulled off.

"I hope the ladies find you more lively than this," Dean muttered. He tucked Sam's legs under the covers one at a time and then folded the covers over him. They instantly began to warm from his body heat.

Sam cracked a smile as he felt Dean press them down on either side of him.

"Gonna sing me a lullaby too?" he mumbled.

"He speaks," Dean sounded surprised. "Well, shut up and go to sleep. I'm gonna pull the blackout curtains, order pizza, and watch some crap cable. If you need any more Ibuprofen, don't be a hero, just let me know, all right?"

"Thanks, Dean."

"Mmm-hmm." The answer was nonchalant, but when Sam opened his eyes one last time, he caught a glimpse of Dean's smile just before it faded.


	3. Drugged

_Disclaimer: I still don't own Supernatural._

_Warnings: Mentions of sexual assault with unsuccessful intent to rape. As it's a drugged fic, the fragmented thought patterns and general writing style is intentional. Disturbed feelings and a sense of "WTF did I just read?" may follow. You know the fics. The ones that get into your head._

_Carry on._

* * *

Sam staggered through another alley, gripping the coat around him as his boots ground loose gravel against the pavement. He distantly heard the steady _drip, drip_ of gritty rainwater from a rusted fire escape. But which one, exactly? His head whipped up in a daze, eyes searching beyond the darkness for the source of that single echoing sound.

An orange streetlight blinded him. One of his arms jerked up to shield his eyes against the wispy orb of light. When he finally looked away, white bubbles outlined with a rainbow spectrum danced before his eyes. He watched one float toward the pavement, solid as a dense cloud.

He reached out with his hand, gently cradling the phantom bubble on its decent. But then its trajectory shifted and it was floating his way, and getting closer and closer and-

Sam staggered backwards, losing his balance. The alley wall was suddenly _there_, between his shoulder blades, the brick pressing against him with the chill of an unwanted lover. A wetness began to seep through his jacket and then his shirt.

Rain from the gutters, he realized. Gritty with engine exhaust – and he _was_ exhausted, he was so tired. But exhaustion escaped through a muffler and a tail pipe... Something was _there, _dangerously familiar to Sam, a muffling hand and another slipping below the waistband of his jeans to grip his flank and reach for his-

He lurched away from the alley wall, embracing his exhaustion, never wanting to escape it if it meant a muffler and a tail pipe. Exhaustion was warm and dizzy, all encompassing, and it was alright with him… His thoughts grew muddled for a moment, but he suddenly felt dirty having the exhaust on him at all.

His clumsy hands fumbled with the zipper of his jacket. That terrible sound made him shiver, but it was almost winter. Almost winter. The jacket fell to the alley pavement, harmlessly laying there, but it was still too close. So he took an unsteady step backward before stripping his shirts off too. A hostile breeze caressed his skin, but if bubbles outlined with a rainbow spectrum could distract him from the phantom stench of stale urine, he could forget about everything. Forget…

Sam stumbled away from those memories, losing himself in the twists and turns of the inner city maze. His path weaved from one wall to another, even when there was nowhere to turn. He stumbled, fell, rose to his feet. Mostly he ran hunched over against the cold, unable to right himself long enough to find the next turn. And he _had _to find the next turn, had to find it because he couldn't turn his head against the lips that sought his own or turn away from the hands that crept under his jacket, grabbing his pecks and pinching him through his shirts… He lurched for every turn, any turn. Raucous laughter, flying bottles, and the occasional shout followed him into the alley shadows.

Finally, he leaned against a dumpster with fatigue, warm garbage juice assaulting his nose and making his eyes water. There was a wetness on his face, and Sam told himself that it was only because he couldn't breathe here, as there was no air. It wasn't because something inside him burned with loss. He'd lost something. Someone. But who?

His thoughts refused to piece themselves together, and he again realized the warmth on his face. The same warmth leaked from his side and back. One of his hands felt for it to ease the numbness in his fingers. They came away crimson. Sam stared at the blood stupidly, his jaw slack. It glistened under the street light.

"Sam!"

Dizziness washed over him as he recognized his own name. That was him, but he didn't- he couldn't-

Pushing off the dumpster, Sam tried to run away. But he kicked a bottle and it hit the alley wall with a _clink_. Catching himself on the corner of another brick building scraped his hands. No, no, no…. the rainwater contaminated with exhaust would get _inside _him now, pushing into his-

He wiped his hands on his jeans in desperation. But the denim wasn't clean, it was covered in bile and beer and semen and-

He ran.

Rounding the corner, he glanced behind him to see a shadow nearing. It became the silhouette of a man with no face. The streetlight behind him cast a halo though his hair, but he had no face, and his stride was all-business and so familiar…

The _hiss_ of steam was Sam's only warning before a scalding vapor escaped the vent ahead and burned his shoulder. Something like a pained cry escaped him before he could stop it. He couldn't keep quiet, not with their hands on him, all over him. It wasn't enough, not even with the hand over his mouth to muffle his cries, the muffler, and he couldn't fight back…

"Sammy, stop! Sam!"

There were running footsteps behind him.

He had to move, to get away, but his legs gave out and he was forced to drag himself along the ground, dirtying his stomach. He missed the bubbles, the rainbow bubbles. His muscles wouldn't pull him any farther and so he covered his head with his arms like a child, squeezing his eyes tightly…

"God, Sammy," someone breathed, relief evident in their voice as they knelt beside him. Fingers grazed his shoulder and suddenly Sam knew, he just _knew_. It was Dean. The realization rendered his head ten times heavier. Even with gravel digging into his cheek and shivers wracking his frame, he felt safe…

A hand rested lightly between his shoulder blades, trailing to the back of his neck. "What were you thinking running off like that, huh? What's going on? Talk to me, Sam." Fingers grazed his wrists, pulling his arms away. Hands carded through his hair, prodding, searching for anywhere he might have hit his head.

"Dean," he mumbled. "Make the bubbles come back. I don't wanna the dirt on me, I don't-" Then he was choking, and a tear trailed over his nose and down his face.

"Shhhh," Dean soothed him. "You're just a little out of it, alright, dude? If I ever see those assholes who drugged you again…" His jaw clenched protectively. "Who knows what they would've done if I hadn't barged into that dingy bathroom when I did. But then you staggered off when I was giving them a beat down. What'd you do that for, huh?"

"I'm cold," Sam slurred. The world was spinning and his stomach was lurching, even in the crisp night air.

"You were always losing your coat as a kid."

Dean stripped off his leather jacket and gently covered his back. The jacket was already warm, and smelled like cheap whiskey. "Just take it easy. They slipped you a Roofie or something." His eyebrows drew together before he brushed Sam's hair back. "Come on, we've got to get out of here. Baby is just around the corner."

Sam found himself staring at Dean shoes an instant later, before one of them disappeared and he felt hands under his arms, hauling him up. Everything tilted and his head lolled.

"Come on, Sammy, help me out here," he heard. And he _tried_, honestly he did, but it was as if his limbs were detached from his body. They refused to listen to him, merely hanging by his sides.

He found himself staring up at a streetlamp again, and gasped weakly when he saw the familiar wispy orb and transparent spheres. He would see the bubbles again, he would-

"Sam?" A hand cradled his face, tilted his chin, and then he was staring into Dean's eyes. They had rainbow in them too. "Sammy, try to focus, okay? Just-"

There was a curse when his legs gave out again and Dean took most of his weight. He was just so _tired_…

* * *

The next thing Sam knew, his back was hitting a motel bed. The sharp sting made him arch his back in pain, moan, anything to ease the pressure on the wounds he suddenly felt. They had glass in them, they had to, and it _hurt_, and he grunted, hand seeking his brother, seeking Dean-

A pair of hands gripped his firmly, enveloping it in warmth and strength. "Easy, Sammy," he heard. "Sorry about the drop, dude, but you aren't as light as you used to be, you know?"

One of Dean's hands gently pressed down on his chest to keep him on the bed, but he grabbed the wrist and tried to push it off. The effort left him panting, chest heaving, which was pathetic as he hadn't moved his brother's hand an inch.

"Sam, calm down," Dean said, his voice level. "_Sammy_."

Just like that, a calm lethargy washed over him. He slowly relaxed back into the mattress. It would be okay. He cracked his eyes open, squinting against the dim light of the lamp on the nightstand.

"There you go." Dean's hand rubbed his chest. "Just take it easy. You've already started sweating it out. No point in overexerting yourself. Here, drink some water. Small sips."

A cup floated in front of him and Sam stared at it, only mildly interested. His mouth was dry and a refreshing drink of water would soothe his throat, but the last drink he'd ingested tasted _off_. There was an instinct within him that refuted the idea of drinking anything else, at least for the moment.

He lolled his head to the side in refusal.

"Come on, man, you need to drink something. Here comes the choo-choo…" A cool hand worked its way behind his neck, lightly squeezing before raising his head. The lip of the cheap plastic cup was pressed against his lips, and Sam stubbornly pressed them together, but then the liquid was pouring into his mouth and he had no choice but to swallow or drown or-

He choked half of it onto his own chest and spat a sip in Dean's direction. There was a curse, and then Dean lowered his head back onto the pillow. He grabbed a towel from the nightstand, grudgingly drying Sam's chest. "Well, at least you know enough to protect yourself, even in this state. For all the good it would do."

The bed dipped as he sat down, leaning closer to examine the burn on Sam's shoulder. The combination of his body heat, tickling breaths, and gentle prodding lulled Sam even deeper into the haze. Or maybe it was the drugs. Either way, he fought to keep his eyes open as Dean grabbed some burn ointment from the kit beside him and began to dab it onto the wound. It didn't hurt so much anymore.

And look there. Sam cracked a smile as he stared over Dean's shoulder.

"The bubbles are back, Dean," he whispered with a slur. They lazily floated toward the ceiling, never quite reaching it. The rainbow outlines each grew wider and wider… he tugged on his brothers shirt, willing him to turn around and see them for himself. "Dean."

Dean's eyes were soft when they glanced up. He pulled something from his pocket. "Yeah, I see them, kiddo. You were going on about bubbles earlier. Those bastards must have dosed you with more than just a Roofie." He shone a penlight into Sam's eyes, making him whine and turn his head.

"This is easier when you're unconscious," he muttered, gently directly his chin toward the ceiling. Light. Ceiling. Light. Ceiling. "No change yet. There probably won't be until morning. Just do me a favor and don't _follow_ any of those bubbles you see drifting around, huh? Took me long enough to track you the first time."

Sam nodded, doubting he'd be able to even if he had the will. He felt Dean take his pulse, fingers skimming his neck.

"Alright, tiger," he finally pulled away, satisfied. "I can't give you anything for… the drugs are out of your system, but I need to turn you over… at the cuts on your back. They didn't look too…"

Dean continued talking, but Sam stopped comprehending the words. He only heard syllables in the pitch of his big brother's voice. Vowels and consonants. Sentences and pauses. It was vaguely like listening to him speak another language underwater.

The motel room began to appear distorted. It stretched and lengthened around them. Sam chose to stare at a spot on the ceiling so he wouldn't get too dizzy trying to keep track of it all. Just one little spot on the ceiling…

Dean's voice grew silent, the penlight was back, and there was a comforting hand on his face. He tried to speak, to reassure Dean that everything was fine, that _he _was fine, but he couldn't move. There was a weakness in his muscles, a tingling sensation. He could only stare, listening and feeling…

A hand squeezed his bicep. _Dean_.

Time was lost in a fog, and then next thing Sam knew, his chest had been cleaned of dirt and the boots had been removed from his feet.

He felt a gentle tugging at his waist and distantly realized that his jeans were being unbuttoned. A hazy memory of what happened in the bar bathroom flashed through his mind, even though they'd never even unbuttoned his jeans before Dean saved him.

Dean saved him.

The last bit of tension melted from his mind as his zipper came down, his pants were tugged off, and the blankets were pulled up to his waist. He shivered, alternating between being too hot and too cold, as if regulating his temperature was the least of his body's concerns.

Dean leaned over him and carefully turned him onto his stomach, grunting with effort. Sam's view of the ceiling was replaced with a view of the wallpaper, a hideous pattern from decades earlier, yellowed and peeling. He allowed his eyes to close. Anything was better than that.

There was the steady sound of breathing, as if Dean were trying to calm himself. He brushed Sam's hair back from his forehead and traced one of the wounds on his back. Then his breathing grew heavier, there was a strangled cry, a sudden movement, and something hit the far wall with a _thud_. Dean's breathing immediately steadied, though Sam could still hear him pacing restlessly.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered, apparently unaware that Sam could still hear him. "I'm supposed to keep you _safe_. Safe from things like this."

The bed dipped beside him. "I'm sorry, kiddo." He rested a hand on Sam's lower back, the only gesture of comfort he could offer without disturbing his wounds. There was a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, and then riffling through the first aid kit.

Sam tried to stay awake, he tried so hard, but he wasn't in control anymore. Maybe he'd never been in control. Nothing he did could fight the pull of the drugs coursing through his system or the comforting realization that he was protected under Dean's wing. So it was that as his brother patched him up, he drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

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